Red Dots and Railway Cars
by AnotherFanFic
Summary: This one takes place after the final scene in The Great Game. Sherlock and John decide not to go back to their flat immediately. They are, instead, on a train bound for York. **Chapter Two is rewritten.** I own nothing, except a current liking for Johnlock in railway cars. Rating for language.
1. Chapter 1

By all outward appearances, both men were exhausted; but neither could seem to wind down. They were now on a train, its wheels slowly chuffing and picking up speed, and Sherlock was charging through passenger cars, nearly knocking people over. "Do try to keep up, John." Even though John had barely slept the past few days, while Sherlock played Moriarty's game.

Sherlock, John was fairly certain, hadn't slept at all since before the first call came.

Moriarty was an evil, manipulative, psychopathic bastard. Who had almost blown John to bits. "Nope," he said to himself. "Think about something. Anything else."

"What?" Sherlock wove them through the dining car, and John hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud.

"Where are we going?"he asked.

"York." There was steel in the detective's voice, but also something strained.

John grimaced in recollection.

* * *

_Sherlock. The panic in his eyes – there and gone in a flash of lightning – at seeing his flatmate rigged with explosives, at hearing the words pouring from his mouth…_

_The way the muscles in the detective's face twitched - spasmed, as he frantically dismantled the vest full of plastic-coated wires and tore it from the doctor's body… flung it to the ground behind him. __"Are you alright?"_

_Panted with adrenaline, relief, even as his eyes betrayed the racing of his brain to piece it all together._

_And then the maniac came back, and the red dots appeared again._

* * *

When they reached their private cabin John sat down, on the bench to the right of the door. He leaned forward to rest his chin on his hands; but they were too shaky, so he sat up again.

Sherlock charged into the tiny compartment and began pacing deliriously, waving his arms about. There was barely room for two of his long strides, so he mostly looked to be turning in stilted circles. John swung his legs up onto the bench, out of the way of his raging flatmate, and pulled his knees into his chest.

Sherlock mussed his own hair frenetically. He made to sit once, twice, on the bench opposite John's, but stood up again before he reached the plank. He stormed out of the cabin, stormed back in again. Each time the door slammed clumsily. As he headed out a third time, a hand reached up and weakly caught his wrist. He twisted around and glared blearily at John, who hadn't actually turned his head toward the detective but could still feel those light, bright eyes regarding him impatiently.

"Have to think, John. Need to keep moving."

Sherlock's bony wrist was released with a sigh. The erratic pulse beneath the doctor's grasp was too strong for him to hold onto anyway. He sat up straighter and tried to fold his arms across his chest behind his knees.

"John?" Sherlock had stayed where he was. John sighed.

"Just… will you stay with me for a bit? Can you just… be here, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked rapidly several times, and then sat down at the end of the bench near John's feet, his legs sprawling out into the narrow aisle.

John stared off in the direction of the cabin window shade, remembering a scene from an American mobster movie … a man going off half-cocked, predictably; expertly manipulated to become an unsuspecting target for a half-dozen rifles' sights…a scene at the mortuary: _I don't want his mother to see him like this._ He shuddered, turning slightly to stare off in another direction.

Sherlock's fingers drummed incessantly on the bench. John knew he was trying to sit still. And he thought: anyone could be so manipulated… if the right buttons were pressed. A person had to be truly evil, to get to know someone and exploit them like that…

Moriarty was evil.

* * *

_A mirthless laugh, and Sherlock's gun was pointed at a vest full of plastic explosives._

_"Ah, Sherlock! That move was too obvious, I know. But I wanted to see just how much your beautiful, genius brain__ could be__ choked by emotional trauma. Not much, I see. Not today. But perhaps I will receive a better result over time. So much time. So much time to play with you, Sherlock. it really has been marvelous, most of our time. I'll be leaving for good now. For today. Third time's the charm!"_

_Each one of the villain's final words fell farther away than the last; their crazed, high pitch echoing in a fashion that was muted – eerily - by the size of the pool. _

_After a few heart-stopping moments, Sherlock lowered his gun. And then they ran. Away from the vest, toward the rear entrance of The Pool. No way to tell what was waiting outside, but once they made it out in public, they kept to the busy streets. Looking over their shoulders and all around them, obsessive-compulsively, though both knew they would never see a sniper who didn't want to be seen. They didn't stop running until they reached the ticket counter at the train station._

* * *

Vermilion. The last of the day's sunlight filtered through the leaves as the railcars rushed by a wooded area, entered through the edges of the cabin's shade and scattered dots of red light in clusters, so closely resembling those laser beam targets.

Two pairs of eyes widened in panic; then, understanding, closed briefly; shutting out the raw, horrific memory of red dots peppering each other's bodies.

John began finally to relax, assured that they were safe, at least for now.

Sherlock's fingers stilled, ceased their relentless tapping on the bench. His shock had been delayed by the adrenaline, but now… His head was heavy, he had no choice but to let it fall back onto the faded wallpaper. John's eyes opened at the curious thumping sound.

"Sherlock. Are you alright?" The detective was paralyzed in his seat. A pause for prickly pride.

"No." He was experiencing a sort of quiet hysteria. Ridiculous. First, mind manipulation by a consulting criminal, then betrayal by his own body.

The doctor sat up straighter, leaned forward, alert. "What's wrong?" Sherlock was trembling now, in spite of himself. It was hateful.

"John come over here please." The request sounded as though he barely had enough air to complete it.

John scooted along the bench, coming to rest beside him. Hesitated, then touched his flatmate's arm. "Take deep breaths." With total trust, the detective inhaled sharply and deeply, and John began to rub his arms and legs, encouraging the circulation in his limbs.

"Yes, thank you, that helps," the brilliant man affirmed, as each phrase was punctuated by a gasp. He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling… John was sitting next to him cross-legged, was practically sitting _on _him. And he was speaking again.

"You need to get some rest tonight. We'll get a room and sleep a bit. Before we figure out anything else to do with this… insanity." Sherlock's silence was not a rebuttal. John was grateful, but Sherlock's breathing was still not right. It was either too fast or too deep. "Slow down, slow down. You don't want to hyperventilate." John's hand was sweeping the hair off of his forehead, then ruffling it fondly.

"Okay?" he inquired softly, and Sherlock turned his head slowly to look at John, who dropped his hand and met the detective's gaze. Sherlock's eyes were tired but trusting, pleading but matter-of-fact. John reached out in slow-dawning comprehension and pulled him into a close embrace. Sherlock tentatively brought his right hand up to hover/almost rest over John's left shoulder blade.

* * *

_He saw the hesitancy in Sherlock's eyes as he tore off the plastics vest, with something like fierce desire, need, and surprise. The same look was blazing in his eyes, behind sheer terror for his friend's near-demise, as he threw the vest away from them. "Are you alright?" _

_He saw that flash of desire squashed down the next instant as the brilliant mind regained control and demanded that attention be paid to the villain's clues. Something was not quite right yet._

* * *

Feeling immensely protective, John pulled his left knee off of the bench and planted his foot on the outside corner instead, drawing his arms tighter around Sherlock, resting his chin on the taller man's shoulder and reaching his right arm around to reinforce the detective's uncertain hold on him. Sherlock scooted closer until his body was nearly flush with John's, chest-to-chest, heart-beat to heart-beat, and wrapped both arms entirely around him, breathing in the scent of his neck, his jumper, his hair.

John held him until his breathing slowed appropriately, and he felt the detective relax. "I like having you close," he said, and squeezed him lightly for emphasis. Sherlock sqeezed back, said nothing.

"We'll be another hour or so to York. Why don't you rest until we get there?"

Sherlock mumbled something into the doctor's shoulder. "You can use me as a pillow. I'll be fine, I've had at least a few hours' sleep over the last few days." He pulled back, reluctantly, instantly feeling bereft at the absence of Sherlock in his arms. The detective tossed his hair out of his eyes and looked at John, his vulnerability completely masked by indifference. Almost.

John slid back into the corner where the bench met the wall by the door, and pulled Sherlock down onto his side until his head rested comfortably on John's jeans. Despite the lengthy embrace they had just shared, Sherlock's posture had stiffened again, and John wanted to reassure him that he did enjoy this lack of space between them. His right hand reached for Sherlock's and brought it up to the detective's chest, holding his fingers in a light grip and rubbing his thumb over knobby knuckles.

Sherlock let out a shuddery breath that had John's catching in his chest. "I'll wake you just before we get there." he said, instead of something incredibly embarrassing and way too early to say to someone you only hugged for the first time a moment ago. Sherlock curled up, catlike, on the bench, and relaxed into solid comfort and the very alive-ness of John Watson.

* * *

**A/N: Don't know why I tend to picture them sharing a train car together. ;) ****Anyway, **the movie scene is from 'The Godfather (Part I).' 

** I always love your feedback!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N - I didn't like the way this chapter originally ended (kind of flat), so I rewrote it. Thank you to all who are following this. And thank you to TheLastAmericanGirl, for your super-solidaritous response to Chapter One. **

* * *

The boys took a cab from the station at York. No light remained in the starless sky. It was a new moon, and there were rainclouds overhead. Sherlock gave the name of a hotel, and they rode along in thoughtful silence.

It was still early evening yet. Other patrons loitered in the lobby; more would be checking in. They ordered one room: two double beds and a pull-out sofa. John replaced his wallet in his back pocket as they entered the lift. The doors closed and it shuddered to life.

* * *

_The railcar rumbled along, wheels rolling on the metal track beneath them in a steady-jarring rhythm. Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh, whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. _

_Sherlock, his face never fully relaxed because he hadn't yet allowed himself to fall asleep. John felt his own body growing limp as the fading light washed over them. He was still on alert, and would be until they sorted this out. As much as he tried not to think the name, Moriarty, he knew only one or two outcomes that would stop him always looking over his shoulder._

_He blinked once, and suddenly it was dark outside._

* * *

Sherlock slid the striped card into the lock mechanism until a green light appeared above the handle. He opened the door, and John followed him through, locking it carefully behind him. He shivered.

"It's bloody freezing in here," he muttered, rubbing his hands together as he walked toward the auto-chiller near the window. He turned the knob counterclockwise, and the roaring sound died down to a low hum that he instantly regretted. The silence in the room was almost louder than the rush of cold air blasting on high.

He closed the heavy curtains in a cautionary move, while Sherlock examined the ceiling and under the beds for hidden surveillance. The door had a good seal all around, but there was a half-inch gap at the bottom, just above the carpeting. John ripped a quilt from the back of the sofa and rolled it up tightly, then stuffed it along the base of the door. Sherlock was standing on a bedside table, peering into the overhead duct cover.

The small bathroom had a shower curtain with plastic lining and metal rings, and two vents: one for the exhaust fan. When John was satisfied that both were bug-and/or- camera-free, he came to stand just outside of the door. Hands on his hips, he looked over at Sherlock. The detective was leaning against the wall in his long dark coat, frowning into his phone.

"Something wrong?" John asked, now it was safe to speak aloud.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but did not meet John's. "Yes, of course," he snapped. Subtext: _Obviously, Why-else-would-we-be-here? _

_Arse, _John thought fondly. "Sherlock, you know that's not what I meant. Is someone texting you?"

Sherlock sighed. "No," he croaked wearily. "No, I've had no messages since... before I went to meet Moriarty."

"You mean Mycroft, with his eyes everywhere. Haven't heard a peep from him?" John challenged, a bit cheeky.

Sherlock glared at him. _No._

John cocked his head, raised an eyebrow. Subtext: _Well, that could mean a lot of things._

"It could also mean nothing, John."

John studied him for a moment. "Neither one of us believes that, but we'll leave it for now." He glanced over at the nearest bed and yawned widely. "I'm knackered."

"Yes, you only slept an hour on the train," came the baritone reply. John's eyes snapped back toward the voice. "Wasn't that long..." he removed his jacket and tossed it over the back of the rolling desk chair. "And anyway, one of us at least should've slept."

* * *

_Sherlock was curled on his side on the lightly padded bench, left arm coming up across his body, left hand resting on his right hip. His right hand was holding someone else's. John's arm around his shoulder, their fingers twined together near Sherlock's sternum. _

_He was glad John couldn't feel his pulse right now, because it was chugging along as fast as the train. He was grateful for the sound of the wheels below the car, because they nearly drowned out the noise of his own blood pounding in his ears._

_John was so tired. So tired. And his leg was quite comfortable to lie on. And Sherlock thought, if I could just feign sleep, he might doze off for a while._

* * *

John pulled back the duvet cover and inspected the sheets. No stray hairs, no bug particles. Clean enough, then. He sat down on the end of the bed and pulled off his shoes and socks, then tugged at his jumper and unfastened his belt, piling everything atop his jacket over the chair.

Sherlock stood watching him. Sherlock was always watching him for one reason or another, and for some time John had ceased to feel self-conscious around him. He wished he'd brought some clothes. As if they'd planned for any of this. Still, some clean pants, at least, would be nice. He went in to the small bathroom and relieved himself, then took a drink from the faucet after washing his hands.

Back in the main room, Sherlock sat in a thoughtful pose on the edge of the second bed, which was apparently undisturbed. John drew in a deep breath, and Sherlock quickly turned to look at him, answering a spilt second before the doctor could address him.

"Hmm?"

Momentarily flummoxed, John shook his head and stumbled over his next few words. "It's - I'm just, gonna, turn off the main light." He smiled, a bit forced. "Okay?"

Sherlock's gray-blue eyes regarded him with their usual intensity.

"Okay," he tried for nonchalant, as if this situation was entirely routine for them.

John hit the switch and stripped down to his pants. He found he was a bit self-conscious now, crawling beneath the bedcovers and lying on his back. He closed his eyes and frowned. Since Sherlock could not be roaming their flat in his usual way, John wondered if the insomniac detective would actually sleep tonight. The thought of another person sitting up all night in a room where one was trying to sleep... was not sleep-conducive.

John sighed, felt the sheets beginning to warm up from his body temperature, and heard Sherlock's coat being shed, followed by the scraping of hardened bits of shoe lace tips on leather. Then, trousers kicking off. Then... a shirt, probably? The next moment large feet were shuffling across the floor and coming closer to him.

The color behind John's eyelids darkened as the table lamps clicked off near his head. Footfalls retreated, stopping at the foot of John's bed. "Sher-" he whispered, but was startled into silence as he felt a rush of cold air on his right side. The bed dipped very near to him, and Sherlock slid under the covers, pulling them all the way up to his throat and tucking his arms inside. John blinked, and swallowed, gripping the duvet tightly in his fists.

"Go to sleep, John."

The doctor let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He tried for a bit of levity. "And what will _you_ be doing?"

"Second bed wasn't clean_,_" Sherlock lied. John snorted.

"People will definitely talk," he grinned, failing to suppress a yawn.

Sherlock smirked in the darkness. "_People_ aren't in this room, John."

"Well," the doctor plunged in, quietly setting all humor aside. "I'm very glad _you're_ in this room, Sherlock." He turned onto his right side, properly facing the detective. His words were spoken in a low tone, and Sherlock's name was whispered gently, almost tenderly.

Having him so near, John wanted very much to reach out to him; but he hesitated, careful to keep distance between them. This was Sherlock. Any more physical contact than he'd already had today, and he might just freak out. John didn't know what Sherlock was seeking at the moment. Even if the man was only looking for comfort (which was certainly more than understandable!), the fact that he had allowed himself to be vulnerable in front of John was a huge step in their relationship.

Sherlock lay perfectly, unnaturally still. "I'm- " he struggled internally for a moment, and finally said, "Thank you."

* * *

_Boarding the railway car... Each man a bundle of raw nerves, taking turns on the wrong side of a panic attack, and then - and Then. _

_One look. One long look and something was suddenly acknowledged. Released. _

* * *

Sherlock relived that moment, how natural it felt. Warmth spread through him. Warm, and weightless. And there was something else.

_Hope. Anticipation. _ "For what?" John whispered daringly. "Thank me for what?" His memory flashed without warning.

* * *

_Seizing a madman in a desperate chokehold. Shocked by a grouping of laser beams directly over his flatmate's heart. _

_Resignation. Determination. _

_Afterward, Sherlock looking him over, taking him in. Finding the words. "John! What you offered to do back there... That was... [swallow]... good."_

* * *

John shook himself out of it. The detective still hadn't answered his question.

"Sherlock...? For... being happy that you're here, with me?"

Sherlock grunted, and John thought, _Now we're getting somewhere. _

They'd shared something earlier, on the train; and if John was being honest with himself, it had started long before that. That Something had revealed itself in flashes at The Pool. Something that had changed; something that could change them, if they'd give it half a chance.

It was going to keep John awake for awhile, and Sherlock seemed to sense this. His hand twitched under the covers and slid across the cold sheet that lay between them. John felt the movement and his heart almost stopped. He intended to reach for Sherlock's hand, but his whole body moved toward him instead, stopping just before he collided with the detective's prone form.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he stammered awkwardly, biting his lip and slowly backing up.

Sherlock panicked. "No- " he assured him, vehemently. _"_No! It's fine." He couldn't stop nodding.

"Is it?" John fairly gasped. He couldn't look away, he wished he could see Sherlock's face more clearly in the dark.

Sherlock turned onto his left side and moved forward slowly. John met him halfway, both reaching blindly, until Sherlock found a well-toned shoulder and John found a trim and ticklish waist. Sherlock moved John's hand around to his back, and John took the opportunity to pull the detective even closer. Sherlock settled in comfortably and rested his forehead against John's.

"Yes," he breathed. Relieved. "Yes."

* * *

**A/N - I really had no idea if I would continue after the first chapter, but this one just sort of crept up on me. Please let me know if you would like this story to continue. Any thoughts/suggestions for continued storylines are always welcome. And I love reviews!**


End file.
